Both Worlds as Our Companion
by xahra99
Summary: Post game fic. Altair and Malik's hunt for the remaining Eden fragments looks set to take them to some strange places, but none stranger than the Great Pyramid at Giza. And they're not the only ones searching....


Both Worlds as Our Companion

An Assassin's Creed fan fiction by xahra99

Umar al-Arish held his lantern high as he walked down the narrow halls of the Grand Bazaar. The candle cast its flickering light over the closed and padlocked doors of the many stalls that lined the market corridors. During the day the corridors were crammed with goods and customers, redolent with the smell of exotic spices, unwashed bodies, and the sweet scent of money. At night the great iron-studded doors were closed and locked. Everything was quiet.

So when Umar turned the corner into the antique market a scraping noise put him instantly on his guard. He paused and squinted further down the dim alley.

One of the shops had been opened.

That would not have been so unusual in the early morning; but the tiny oiled-leather windows set high into the bazaar roof were still dark. The complex was locked until dawn. The only people allowed within the bazaar at night were Umar and his fellow guards.

Umar crept closer. His hand fell to the hilt of the sword in his sash. When he was half way down the corridor a pale figure exited the shop and closed the doors as if he had every right to be there.

Umar nearly hesitated for a moment at the figure's casual arrogance (surely a thief would not be so brazen) before he remembered his place and drew his sword.

"Name yourself!"

The silhouette turned towards him. A deep hood concealed its features. It clutched a slim leather folder in its hand.

Umar nearly dropped his sword. He stammered out a prayer against jinn.

The figure took two quick steps towards him. Umar caught the glint of a long sword at its side and the prayer died on his lips. Jinn did not wear swords-they had no need of them. Only mortal men required weapons, which meant the figure in front of him was no more supernatural than Umar himself, which meant...

"Thief!" Umar bellowed at the top of his lungs.

The stranger bolted.

Umar followed, more out of instinct than anything else. The lantern got in his way before he had taken three strides and Umar dropped it to the floor in a shower of sparks. The figure's white robe was clear enough.

The antique market was a long blind alley. Umar chased the stranger to its end, expecting him to stop or at least slow down as he neared the shuttered double doors of the large shop that marked its end. The thief did neither. He leapt at the barrier, found purchase for the soles of his boots on the rough planks and caught the iron bar that ran from wall to wall of the narrow arcade.

Umar guessed the stranger's plan in an instant.

Umar replaced his sword in his belt. As the thief pulled himself up on the beam and turned left with a dancer's grace, holding both hands out from his side for balance, Umar ran to the shop door directly under the path of the beam. A narrow window gleamed above the door. By the time the thief slit the leather with a long curved knife and disappeared through the skylight, Umar was halfway up the door. He pulled himself up, placing hand over hand and using the hinges, lock and sill of the door as infinitesimal handholds and footholds. He was sweating by the time he grasped the edge of the ruined window.

Umar hauled himself through and fell onto the roof, gasping like a half-drowned kitten in the humid night air. He rolled onto his back and caught a glimmer of white out of the corner of his eye.

He gave chase.

The roofs of the bazaar rose up around him, alternately rounded and smooth like the back of a merchant's camel. Sweat broke out on Umar's forehead and gathered slickly beneath the collar of his robe. His knuckles stung from splinters which he had overlooked in his haste to climb.

Umar had little idea of what he would do once he caught the thief, but he knew that it had been a hundred and forty-three years since a thief had successfully stolen from the souk. Professional pride prevented him from abandoning the chase, even as the mud brick and plaster of the roof sagged treacherously beneath the thin soles of his leather boots.

Ahead of Umar, the thief reached the end of the bazaar roof. This did not seem to trouble him. He sped up instead of hesitating, his back receding ever faster to Umar's sweat-stung eyes, and leapt from the roof onto a row of houses below. His white robe billowed behind him like the wings of some strange bird.

Umar raced to the end of the roof, gritted his teeth, and jumped.

His own heels hit the opposite roof with as much grace as a dying seagull. His hands skidded painfully along the rough surface of the roof. Momentum carried him forwards, stumbling and breathless, and even, he thought, a little closer to his prey.

"Stop!" he choked.

The stranger paid him no heed. He redoubled his pace, flying like a hawk over the narrow alleys that separated one block of houses from the other. Once he checked his pace and doubled back towards Umar, only to jump sideways to yet another house. Impossible as it seemed, Umar had gained a little. The stranger had to plan his route and calculate the best way to achieve it. Umar had merely to follow. Adrenaline pumped in his veins. He whispered a charm on each thudding footfall, begging the Lord to give his feet wings like the prophet's steed, so that he could catch the thief and regain whatever it was that had been stolen.

But the gods must not have been listening to Umar that night.

As they passed the wall of a new-painted house, gleaming white in the dim moonlight, Umar missed his step. He fell sprawling onto the roof. The descent bruised his knees and fouled his robe with the paint, which Umar knew for a fact was made from pigeon droppings and white lead. It was a toxic and highly unpleasant mess.

Umar climbed to his feet and looked around.

The thief was gone.

He saw no white robe amongst the sea of rooftops. No flicker of movement caught his eye. The stranger had vanished.

Umar exhaled heavily and looked down at himself.

The basest beggar would have been ashamed of the state of his tunic. His hands were bruised and bleeding. His sword had fallen from his sash somewhere along the rooftops.

_Maybe it is a good job I did not catch him_, Umar thought as he brushed ineffectively at his clothes. His glance slid along the dusty roof and up the ruined, paint-streaked wall, where it fell on something that made his blood run cold.

It was a simple, shallow handprint. Marked clearly in the fresh paint, it was deepest at the heel of the hand and slightly angled, as if the hand's owner had used the corner of the building to gain momentum as he jumped to the next roof. The outline of the palm and fingers stood out clearly. There were three fingers, and a thumb. The left ring finger had been hacked off at the first joint.

Umar's grandmother had been Syrian. He recognized the mark from a thousand late-night tales told around the cooking fire.

It was the sign of an Assassin.

Altaïr waited until the guard had jumped down from the roof before he left the shadow of the mosque's dome. The city was silent around him, drugged with the oppressive heat of summer. He leapt from the roof, halted his fall by grasping a wooden beam that jutted out from a ruin and lowered himself easily to the street below. The leather folder he had stolen from the antique shop was rolled securely in his belt.

Altaïr glanced around to get his bearings. The air was thick and redolent of river mud, with an earthy stench that he recognized as the scent of the tanners' quarter to the west. A cluster of ruined buildings jutted along the skyline to the southwest. They marked the remains of the town's predecessor, Fustat, city of the tents, which had been burned to keep it out of the hands of the Crusaders nearly thirty years before.

Altaïr had no love for the Crusaders. He spat at the sight of the broken citadel and set off unerringly into the maze of mosques and markets that made up the city of Al-Qahirah, which the Franks called Cairo.

By the time Altaïr reached the tangled streets of the Jewish quarter the rooftops were noisy with the clatter of pigeons' wings as the fanciers called in their birds for their morning feed. The low red light of dawn hung ominously over the city. It stained the mud brick buildings a blushing scarlet and gleamed rosily from the tiles of azure and white that decorated the gates of wealthy homes.

As Altaïr neared his destination, the mud brick buildings began to far outnumber those with glazed facades. There were quarters in Cairo where even the beggars ate soft white bread, where silks hung from every window and the trees were heavy with apricots and nesting birds.

The ghetto was not one of them.

Altaïr walked around a corner into a small and twisted alley. The corridor was too narrow even for a wagon, evidenced by the piles of rubbish and stained straw that littered its walls. He stopped outside a shuttered shop and rapped on the small door that stood beside it.

There was the sound of someone struggling with the bolts. Finally the door opened and Altaïr slipped inside.

Malik did not even wait until the door had closed to snatch the leather folder from under Altaïr's arm.

"This is it?" he asked as Altaïr followed him up the steep flight of stairs that led to the living quarters above the papermaker's shop.

"Of course."

"Do not pretend you do not make mistakes," Malik snapped as he pushed the door at the top of the stairs open with his shoulder. The room revealed was low-ceilinged and small. It had once been decorated with blue and white tiles, but over the years many of the tiles had come away from the wall and shattered on the floor. The plaster was the dun color of a donkey's hide.

Altaïr kicked the door closed. It creaked alarmingly and sagged on its hinges. "This is not a mistake."

Malik snorted. He laid the folder on a small table in front of the only window. Altaïr went to stand in front of the window, where he watched the pigeons wheel above the roofs without showing any interest in his prize.

Malik opened the folder, handling the old texts with reverence. He leafed through several old documents of yellowed calfskin before selecting one and holding it up to the light. Finally he glanced up at Altaïr's motionless silhouette. "It seems not," he said. "This is it. You did well."

The paper Malik held seemed simple enough. A pair of right-angled lines cut across the paper like the sides of a quadrant. Inside the lines ran an interlocking pattern of smaller strokes, with a miniature diagram of what appeared to be a house in the centre of the drawing.

Altaïr laced his fingers together and stretched. "My thanks," he said sarcastically.

"Do not rest upon your laurels." Malik retorted. "And get out of the way. You're in my light."

He rotated the paper, whispering under his breath as he deciphered the faint lines of Arabic script that annotated the drawing. "Queen's...King's Chamber." He stabbed a finger at the house shape. "Here. The Eden fragment surely sleeps within."

Altaïr turned away from the window with the ghost of a smile on his face. He bent down and peered dubiously over Malik's shoulder. "You place much faith in words," he remarked.

"Words!" Malik snapped. He knew that Altaïr was perfectly capable of reading, should the mood so take him. It infuriated him that the other Assassin held scholarship in disdain. "Need I not remind you why we are here? The Eden fragment's last illusion-that globe you hold so closely-that was a map, Altaïr, a map in which you placed your faith. This parchment is a map. A map of the Great Pyramid at Giza. One of the world's seven wonders."

"A map drawn by thieves."

"A map drawn by thieves," Malik said, "to guide the quest of an Assassin."

Altaïr smiled like a jackal. He traced one finger over the lines of slope and tunnel that marked the Great Pyramid's passages. "It is about time fortune began to favor us."

Malik sighed. "Fortune _has_ favored us, Altaïr."

"Except for the storms on the Roman sea."

"Except for them." Malik allowed.

"And the plague at the Nile delta ports."

"Well," Malik said, "we are not yet dead. That's something. And we know the location of the Eden fragment. That is something else. I will talk to ben Ishaq. He has contacts among the linen traders. They rob the monuments of their treasures in search of ancient cloths. They will get us inside the pyramid. "

Altaïr put down the map. "You speak with confidence."

"Yes. For the first time I begin to believe that we will do this." Malik replaced the map into the leather folder as he spoke. He piled the remaining papers neatly on the table. "One moment-how went your mission? Did it go smoothly as expected?"

Altaïr shrugged. "I was followed," he admitted. "One of the bazaar's guards proved more ...persistent than I had anticipated. I lost him amongst the rooftops and made my way back here."

"Are you sure? You were not followed?"

"As sure as I ever am. What of it? The Cairene guards are slow and soft. Even Acre's Templars would slit their throats without too much trouble. We would make short work of them."

"Maybe _we_ would." Malik said. He gestured at the glazed Star of David that was still visible on the room's fading tiles. "Our hosts may not. I have no wish to bring trouble to their doors."

"They will be safe. I will make sure of it."

Malik regarded his companion with well-worn skepticism. Chaos followed Altaïr like flies followed oxen. "Still," he said. "We ask much of them and give little in return. I have a mind to present the rest of these papers to ben Ishaq for his hospitality. Linen is hard to come by in this city."

Altaïr picked up the closest parchment. "What are they?" he asked

"I have not looked." Malik said. "Old documents. They are not important."

"_What_?"

Umar's voice cut through the murmuring conversation of the bazaar. He loomed, red-eyed and un-groomed, over the wizened merchant who owned the antique store. The merchant, already dismayed at the invasion of his shop, winced. "A folder of documents, my lord. Containing..."

"Quiet!" Umar glanced around. People had begun to stare. He grabbed the merchant by the collar of his robe and dragged him choking into the shallow shelter of his tiny shop. A walnut case gaped mutely, bearing witness to the work of the thief Umar had disturbed. Umar gestured at the box. "Tell me once again."

The merchant's voice dropped into the rich patter of his kind as he sensed Umar's interest. "Documents, my lord. A friend of mine found them. They were hidden in a chamber off the women's gallery in a house which he was demolishing. Knowing that I have an interest in such things, he..."'

"I have no interest in their history!" Umar snapped. A sleepless night and day had begun to take their toll upon his humor. The merchant cowered. Umar sighed and reined in his temper with difficulty. "A list of the documents, if you please." He lowered his voice and hissed "_The safety of our ruler may depend on it_!"

The merchant nodded. He withdrew a huge velvet-bound ledger from the ebony counter that took up one full side of the shop. Licking one finger, he flicked the pages until he found the one he sought. "Here, my lord. The dates of the documents varied widely. I myself dated many of the papers to between four centuries and one decade in age."

"Get on with it!"

"I cannot see how my lord would possibly have any interest in-"

Umar growled. "The Assassins are in the city! There is but little time. Hurry, for the Prophet's sake!"

The shopkeeper took a look at Umar's face and hurried to obey. "One dozen fragments of the Koran, my lord. A letter from the Karaite elders of Ascalon to their companions at Alexandria. A second letter, this one from the secretary of the Caliph of Cordoba to the Khazan of the Khazars. A plan of the necropolis at Giza. And," he swallowed, "a partial map of the Cairo citadel."

Umar took a sharp breath. "That's it," he hissed. "That's what they were after!"

The citadel of Cairo was widely regarded as the most impregnable fortress within a week's good travelling. It had been completed ten years previously, and had replaced the old palace as the principal dwelling place of Cairo's ruler.

Cairo's ruler. Sayf al-din, the Sword of God. And, more importantly, the brother of Saladin.

Umar swallowed. The general was known as a fearsome warrior, a gifted and compassionate ruler in his own right. Surely the Assassins could not kill him?

"Speak of this to no-one," he said, and left.

The merchant watched Umar go. He hesitated for less than the time it took to blink thrice before sidling over to his partner in the next store.

"Friend," he said, "Listen..."

The sun was high in the sky when Malik heard somebody knocking at the narrow door between the shops that led to their hiding place. At first, he ignored the sound. When it failed to disappear he checked the knife in his belt and sidled down the stairs. Altaïr had left the building some hours earlier on a mysterious errand of his own but this noise did not sound like Altaïr.

He tucked the dagger under the stump of his upper arm and his left side, pointing inwards, as he struggled with the locks. A knife in such a position could be easily overlooked. Malik had retained the dark linen robes of a _rafiq_ of the Assassins, and the polished wooden hilt of his knife blended easily with the fabric.

He opened the door.

The worried and heavily bearded face of Ibrahim ben Ishaq, one of Cairo's few Jewish paper traders, stared at him. The Jew was sweating heavily, not unusual on such a warm day, but he shifted from foot to foot as if ants were biting him under his clothes.

Malik held the door open. "Safety and peace be with you,' he said politely.

"May peace be with you, friend," Ben Ishaq said, somewhat rapidly. "It is certainly not with me."

Malik scowled. "What news?"

The merchant waved a hand and hastened inside the door. He closed it behind him, reached for the bolt and slid it into place. Malik unobtrusively plucked his dagger from its hiding place and replaced it in the scabbard at his belt while Ibrahim's attention was distracted. "What news, my friend?" he asked again as he preceded ben Ishaq up the stairs.

The merchant did not reply.

Malik shrugged. He held the door open at the top of the stairs. There was no tea, but a large pitcher of water waited on the table. He gestured to ben Ishaq to sit and poured two cups. The trader perched uneasily on the edge of his seat as Malik sat beside him. He looked as if he would rather be anywhere but with the Assassin. He did not drink the water Malik offered him.

Malik frowned. Ben Ishaq was an old friend. He had supplied Malik with paper for his maps to maintain his guise as a Jerusalem cartographer and book salesman, and he had been the only person to offer the two Assassins lodging when they arrived, penniless and travel weary, at Cairo's port. "What troubles you, Ibrahim?"

The Jew ran his hands over his head. "Maybe you would know better than I."

Malik took a long drink of his own water. "Truly, I have no idea," he said, slightly confused at ben Ishaq's phrasing.

The merchant shuffled in his seat. He ran his hands over his face until they glistened with sweat. His knuckles gleamed whitely. Finally he burst out, ""I would not have welcomed you into my home if I had known what you had come to do!"

Malik was nonplussed. Ben Ishaq purchased rags from tomb robbers. He had made no secret of the fact to Malik. The Assassin had anticipated no objections towards them ransacking a tomb, even a tomb of the ancestors.

"What?" he said stupidly.

"This...this plot! You plan to assassinate the general!"

"We plan nothing of the sort!" Malik said indignantly.

"Indeed? Then why is the whole of Cairo talking of it?"

"Then the whole of Cairo must be wrong!"

"It is the talk of the bazaars!" Ben Ishaq retorted. "And in all the marketplaces. My God!" He gestured around the shabby room. Sacks of linen rags still haunted its corners, testament to its previous life as a storehouse for the paper factory below. "I cannot believe I offered you shelter!"

"Do you not listen?" Malik snapped." We no longer do the bidding of the Brotherhood!"

"I do not care which master you follow!" Ben Ishaq burst out. "But the General is the brother or our own great Saladin, and I would not see him killed!"

"You shall not!" Malik snapped, beginning to lose his temper.

Ibrahim ben Ishaq must have seen Malik's anger, because some of the fury seemed to drain out of him. "Then what are you here for?"

"What I told you."Malik said.

"I am not sure that I believe you. Where is your companion? Does he even now sink his blade into the throat of our ruler?"

"Do you not trust me?" Malik demanded. "Have I ever sworn an oath and then violated it? Have I ever signed an agreement that I did not respect? I swear in the name of the Prophet that we plan no such thing! As for my companion, he is doubtless buying bread, or some other menial task. He is more easily mistaken in the streets than I. We have come to this city to find the relic which I spoke of. And that is all."

Ben Ishaq bowed his head. "You are a man of honor. I apologize." He pointed a gnarled finger at the leather folder that lay on the table. "But they say you stole a map."

"Now that is the truth," Malik said cautiously. "We took it from the bazaar last night."

"Somebody saw you," the merchant told him.

Malik cursed Altaïr under his breath. "The map was necessary."

"Nevertheless. The Holy Book prohibits thievery in every situation, no matter how desperate the need. And I have a stall in the Bazaar itself. I would not like to see the area gain a reputation for poor security."

Malik bowed. The gesture was as graceful as he could muster, given his seated position and his missing hand. "My apologies."

"My thanks." Ben Ishaq said. He picked up the folder. "May I see for myself what you have stolen? Whatever it may be, it has set the guards of the city buzzing like flies in a honey pot."

Malik spread his hand. "Of course."

The Jew picked up his water and sipped at it as he examined the parchment. It was a small gesture, Malik thought, and kindly meant. The room grew so quiet that Malik could hear the dogs whimpering outside. Finally ben Ishaq looked up.

"If things are as you say, then this document will be of great value to you."

Malik slipped the paper back into its folder. "My thoughts indeed."

The merchant pointed towards the pile of paper that Malik had put aside. "And what of these?"

"Gifts,' said Malik, "In return for your kind hospitality."

"That may be not all they are," Ibrahim ben Ishaq. Frowning, he leafed through the documents and selected a single page, which he pulled out to examine. "They say you have stolen the plans to the General's very chambers,' he said, "They say you plan to kill him in his sleep."

"Nonsense. I have examined all of the papers, and there is nothing-"

Ben Ishaq passed the page to Malik.

Malik swallowed. He whispered a curse in the dialect of the Syrian shepherds. The plans had made no sense to him on a cursory reading, elated as he had been at discovering the map of the great Pyramid and the location of the Eden fragment. Their script was indecipherable. It revealed its secrets only on a closer examination. The angular lines of ink and flowing ornate calligraphy made up a second map. The pattern marked on it was of an unusual shape, a human head with a jutting chin and its face pointed downwards. It was the pattern of the walls of Saladin's citadel. Inside the barricades each building and gate was described with grace and detail.

Malik lowered the parchment to the table. His missing limb itched, as it always did when he was concerned. "The map," he whispered.

Ben Ishaq watched him carefully. When he was convinced that his friend displayed the emotions of true and great surprise he replaced the citadel map onto the heap of documents. "Indeed. I am told the city guard is already out in force."

"They are not a problem." Malik said dismissively.

"Sayf-al-Din's personal guard might give you more of a challenge. They want you dead, old friend."

"They will not be the first." Malik glanced to the window. Their shadows already showed long on the floor. Cairo's sky gleamed with the amber light of dusk. He wondered why Altaïr had not returned. "But we must - _I _must - show them that we are no threat. Assassination is not our intention."

"How will you do that?" Ben Ishaq asked, honestly puzzled. "Do you know any influential men in Cairo?"

Malik mutely shook his head. His gaze fell on ben Ishaq's half-full cup. And then he remembered a hot spring afternoon in Masyaf, and an ambassador who had suffered the Master's hospitality, even though he had no wish to do so. "In fact," he said, "I do."

Haroun al-Misri returned to his house well after sunset. He ate a light meal, dismissed his servants, and retired to his study. Like the rest of his house, the study was Spartan in its architecture. Its furnishings were more luxurious. Haroun collected antiquities. He owned a carpet woven by the virgins of Isfahan and a set of intricately carved rock crystal vases decorated with vines. His newest acquisition; a small and ugly figurine purchased from a man who swore that it had come from the pyramid of one of the great Egyptian kings, sat on his writing-desk.

Haroun settled himself at the desk. The servants had prepared a cup of wine for him, as was his custom after a hard day's work. Forbidden by the prophet, the wine was another one of Haroun's little luxuries.

He picked up the wine and reached for a volume of Persian poetry.

Haroun was halfway through the second page when he noticed a curious rippling in the pages of his book. He glanced up and saw the curtains moving in a gentle wind. Clearly some inconsiderate servant had left the windows open. Book and cup in hand, Haroun stood up. He walked across the room, pushed the curtains back and leaned forwards to close the carved wooden _mashrabiya_ screens that protected the room from the noise and dust of the street outside.

Somebody coughed.

Startled, Haroun looked around.

A man stood in the shadows at the corner of the _mashrabiya_. Patterns of moonlight played across his face so that Haroun could not deduce if he was young or old, Egyptian or foreign. He cleared his throat quietly, as if to introduce himself, and stepped forwards.

Haroun dropped book and cup together.

The stranger reached out his hand without any effort and caught the book. He glanced at the cover, closed the book with a snap and handed it back to Haroun.

"Layla and Majnun?" he said. "A popular choice, but one slightly too romantic for my own tastes."

Haroun took the book automatically. His foot crunched on a piece of glass and he looked down. His cup lay shattered on the floor. Wine spilled across Haroun's exquisite Persian carpet.

Haroun looked at the wine, then at the book, then up at the stranger who wore a nondescript dark robe and carried himself with such confidence that he seemed to belong there. The ambassador wondered if he was a new servant, one his wife had forgotten to tell him about. He would not have put it past her.

Haroun was not usually hasty with servants, but the sight of the ruined carpet and the stranger's irritatingly familiar manner put him on edge.

"Do you know who I am?"

The stranger nodded. "Indeed. You are Abu Kareem Haroun al-Rashid ibn Ahmad ibn Saleh, known as al-Misri, the Egyptian."

Haroun took a closer look at the stranger, who obligingly stepped from the shadows into the room. His left sleeve hung loosely at his side and his face was strangely memorable.

"You-you look familiar." Haroun stumbled. He did not move to pick up the glass. He had an awful feeling that something was very badly wrong.

"My name is Malik al-Sayf," the interloper said politely. "I believe that we have met."

"Where?"

"Masyaf."

_Malik al-Sayf_, Haroun thought. He swallowed. "You are an Assassin."

There was no answer.

"Have you come to blackmail me?"

"That," Malik said precisely, "is not what we do."

Haroun's legs gave way. He sank onto the floor, trying not to disgrace himself. He remembered the halls of the Assassins, their rushing river, their insolent leader. He recalled the one-armed Assassin who had stared at him curiously as he stood shaking at the Master's table.

The Assassin crouched beside him. Haroun thought wildly that he should fight. The man only had one arm. He could overpower him, jump from the window, call the servants or summon the guards. But he had no strength. And even if he had, the _fidai_ of Masyaf were most feared. The man in front of him could no doubt disembowel him with his toes if Haroun so much as coughed.

Moonlight glinted from the dagger in the Assassin's belt. The small room was so quiet that Haroun could hear the cats mewing on the walls outside his house.

The Assassin sighed. "Peace,' he said, "You will not die today. I have need of you."

Haroun swallowed. He clutched the book of poetry to his chest and dragged himself to his knees. "Why should I believe you?"

The Assassin's voice held a glimmer of exasperation. "You are not dead yet. Besides, you are the second person to question my honor this day. The first went away satisfied. I hope you will do the same."

"The Brotherhood has no honor," hissed Haroun.

This time the Assassin's voice held more than a glimmer of exasperation. "We- I-are no longer affiliated with the Brotherhood. And if you insult me again, you _will_ suffer for it."

"Nobody leaves the Brotherhood!" Haroun protested.

"Even so." The Assassin tossed a sheet of parchment at Haroun's feet. "You will return this paper to Sayf-al-din. And you will tell him that we have no intention of endangering his person. Suggest to him that his retainers should be more careful with their plans."

Haroun took the paper. He saw the familiar outline of the citadel scrawled upon parchment. "The map from the bazaar," he breathed. "Where are the rest of the documents?"

The Assassin's hand strayed to the hilt of his dagger. "It is enough to return this one. Act as I have described. If you do not, I will find you. Your death shall not be fast."

Haroun stared, hypnotized, at the dagger. "Uh, yes."

"Very well. I hope for your sake that we do not meet again. Do not call for your guards. They will be no use. And do not speak of this."

Haroun shook his head, realized that the gesture might be misinterpreted, and nodded instead.

The Assassin left the paper in Haroun's hand. He shoved the curtains aside and climbed onto the open sill of the _mashrabiya_. Instead of jumping down like Haroun had expected, he went upwards, towards the roof.

There was a scrabbling sound above Haroun's head, then silence.

It was several moment before Haroun plucked up enough courage to peer out the window. He saw nothing. He had not expected anything else.

He sighed and did as he was bid.

_Do not call the guards_, Malik thought as he jumped from rooftop to rooftop. _Ha. I was fortunate that he was too scared to think_.

He had done no physical work during their two weeks' sojourn in Cairo. The knowledge pulled at his legs and arms like a leaden weight.

_I am getting old, _Malik thought. He felt a sharp pang of longing for the days when he would have leapt from rooftop to rooftop without even thinking about the process (not as smoothly as Altaïr, maybe, but he would have died rather than admit it). Losing his arm had taught him guile and cunning, true, but there were always days when he considered it an unfair trade.

He climbed down to the streets as soon as he could and headed back to the house, walking slowly, because only criminals and children ran. The streets were almost empty. Twice he saw guards, but they passed without noticing him. Altaïr was waiting when he reached ben Ishaq's shop in the cool hours of early morning. An arsenal of newly sharpened blades lay around the room in silent testament to his vigil. Altaïr did not look happy, but then he rarely did.

"The guards on the streets run thick as lice," he said, as soon as Malik walked in the door. "What has happened?"

Malik sighed. "I spoke with ben Ishaq when you were out. The soldiers belong to the general of all Cairo. He knows that we are in the city. He believes that we plan to kill him."

Altaïr shrugged. "A logical assumption. But it will cause us trouble."

"I have already dealt with it," said Malik. He kicked a few tiles across the floor and sat down.

Altaïr's expression changed for a single second before his customary mask slipped back into place. "_How_?"

Malik allowed himself a small smile. "The folder you stole contained a map of Sayf-al-din's quarters." he explained. "No doubt some other scholar more astute than I recognized this. They have added two and two together to number five. The conclusion of the sum is, of course, that we visit Cairo to assassinate the General."

Altaïr scowled. "I should have killed the guard," he observed.

Malik nodded. "Indeed you should," he said, "were it not against the Creed."

Altaïr picked up a knife. He began to whet the steel with more than usual force. "What would you have done in my place?"

"I would not have called attention to us. I would have-oh does it matter? I cannot move as fast as you, and you know it. I could not have stolen the texts."

"So what was your plan?" Altaïr asked. "Whatever it was, it does not seem to have worked so well. The guards are everywhere."

_That is because, no doubt, they search for a two armed man in a white Assassin's robe_, Malik thought, _what you give them is exactly what they desire_, "Give it time," he said.

"That does not answer my question."

"I am coming to that. Anyway. Ben Ishaq called upon me this afternoon, ready to throw us out."

"He dared threaten an Assassin?" Altaïr asked curiously.

"It was not a threat." Malik said hastily, forestalling any attempt on ben Ishaq's life as a result of Altaïr's sense of honor. "He might consort with tomb robbers, but he has honor of his own. I think he was..." he paused, "...disappointed. We have been friends for years, he and I. Luckily he did not believe that we could have deceived him. He drew my attention to the document and I returned it to its rightful owner."

"You called upon the General?" Altaïr's voice, for once, held a trace of respect.

"I am standing before you, am I not? No. I left the document with the ambassador that visited Masyaf a season ago. He seemed an honest man. Quick to follow instructions."

"Will he deliver it?"

Malik nodded. "He will."

"Then let us hope he does it quickly," Altaïr said practically. "We leave Cairo tomorrow, at noon. It is lucky for us that the grave robbers ben Ishaq spoke of are used to evading the guards. And if the soldiers are guarding their general while we are crossing the Nile, so much the better. Your mistake may work in our favor."

"It was not my mistake." Malik muttered. "So we have guides, do we? What about camels? A route into the temple?"

"We have all that."

"Fortune willing, we shall find the artifact." Malik said.

"Not fortune -skill."

Malik smiled ruefully. "We will need good fortune. The tombs have already been robbed. The Eden fragment will not be easy to find...if it is even there."

"It is there. Where else would it be? The Temple of Solomon, the great monuments: these fragments have a liking for grand buildings. They are not buried in the ground like beggars. The Templar's fragment marked the location of the other pieces itself!"

"The Templar's fragment marked Egypt." Malik retorted. "Possibly even Cairo. The pyramid is a powerful object, that is true, but I myself would not hide an object of great value there. I would hide it," he paused, thinking, "In a hole in the desert, with no markers for a hundred paces, and make sure that even I did not know the location to return."

"Let us hope that our ancestors were less wise."

"Let us hope."

They set off at midday. Altaïr passed the time sleeping, or at least sitting rigidly with his eyes closed. Malik studied the documents that he had overlooked earlier. Most of them were in Hebrew, a language which Malik had little knowledge of. The strange language only made deciphering the papers more intriguing. Malik had lost himself in the work by the time Altaïr roused him to leave. They collected their tools, locked the door behind them and set off into the city.

The metropolis of Cairo was within a half-day's travel of the desert. The pyramids themselves were visible from the flat plains of the city, but they were much farther away than they appeared. The Assassins were already weary by the time they reached the Nile along the long and dusty path that led from the city.

The ferry was already waiting. It was a small and, to Malik's eyes, not very well maintained boat. It bobbed on the glassy, sluggish river like a leaf in a great stream. Not far away, Malik saw crocodiles basking on the banks. They held their wide mouths open, teeth gaping, as tiny birds picked meat from between their knifelike teeth.

"Crocodiles." Altaïr muttered.

"The Orontes had crocodiles."

"The Orontes at least had the grace to hide its crocodiles."

"It is not the crocodile you see that kills you." Malik pointed out.

Altaïr eyed the swirling brown water balefully. He opened his mouth again as if to speak but said nothing. His hand dropped to the hilt of his long knife at his belt as he stepped aboard.

Malik followed Altaïr onto the boat with as much bravado as he could muster. He touched the hilt of his own dagger, felt instantly better, and then reflected exactly how much use a knife would be in the middle of a crocodile-infested river. Likely, it would only drag him down. As the boat cast off he would have traded most of his weapons for a scroll of swimming lessons and the ability to learn really, really fast.

He looked over at Altaïr and was somewhat relieved to find that the other Assassin looked even more uneasy.

"Are you well?" he asked innocently.

"Assassins do not fear death," Altaïr said dismissively. Malik noticed that he was sweating. There was no glory in drowning under a sinking craft.

"We have had some experience of sail, you and I. In your opinion, does this look like a boat that capsizes easily? I do not think it does. If it puts your mind at ease, I shall ask..."

"I do not wish to know." Altaïr said quickly. "The water seems rough. I do not think this craft will be able to withstand the current."

Malik looked over his shoulder at one of the sailors. "Rough water?" he shouted across.

The sailor shook his head vigorously. "Oh no! A good day!"

Altaïr shook his head mournfully. He sat cross legged at the head of the boat with his head bowed and eyed the river like it would erupt, volcano-like, and swallow him whole.

Amusing though Malik found Altaïr's discomfiture, he turned away. Gazing curiously over the water, he could see outlines of the pyramids, visible behind a thick haze of heat. The river rushed towards the sea with the speed of a hundred horses. It certainly seemed like an easier way to travel to Malik than the small boat they had taken across the Roman Sea.

Their next method of transport was less welcome.

The tomb robbers were waiting for them at the point Altaïr had arranged; a small oasis not far from the necropolis. They were a motley crew, young and old, who gave the impression that they had been indulging in acts of larceny since they could walk. Malik found this reassuring. He found their companions less so.

"Camels." Malik said gloomily.

Altaïr smiled as one of the camels opened its mouth to display its long, yellow teeth. He had the grace to hold his tongue, although Malik suspected that was because Altaïr was no more enthusiastic about camels than Malik was.

They set off at dusk, when the dunes were quiet. Off to the east, Cairo's lights gleamed against the clouds.

The ride was not as painful as Malik had anticipated. His camel was a docile beast. It followed its companions lazily, leaving Malik little to do in the way of actual riding. He leaned back, adjusting himself to the rocky gait of the beast. The pyramids loomed to the north, ever closer. It seemed impossible to Malik that they would find one artifact in such a vast expanse of stone.

They left the camels behind in the necropolis, tethered to the trunk-like legs of a massive statue.

Everything was silent. There seemed no point in concealment; after all, the guides were chatting as if they did this every day. Malik touched the nearest man on the shoulder.

"Why are there no people here?""

The guide was a skinny man named Samir who looked as dry and dark as a mummy himself. He sucked his teeth and shrugged. "They say it's cursed. Also," he added more prosaically, "the weather runs to storms at this time of year. So we better hurry in and hurry back, if you don't mind."

Malik was not a superstitious man, but, as he looked around at the massive blocks of stone, he had to suppress a tingle of fear that ran down his spine. He leaned out and touched one of the blocks as they rounded a massive monument. It was warm with remembered heat. Malik shivered. "Forgive me," he said to the guide, "but you don't seem too concerned."

Samir dropped back to walk beside Malik. He gave the Assassin a gap-toothed grin. "People are ignorant. These tombs were defiled long ago. Their curses hold no teeth. Mind you, we've opened many fresh, and we've not suffered more than any other folk. "

Malik felt obscurely cheated. "So it's just a story."

"Seems so."

"Where do we enter?"

The guide pointed at an indistinct speck on the side of the pyramid. They walked closer, feet slipping in shifting sand. When the missing blocks gaped wide, large as a man, and the pyramid loomed like a mountain above their heads Samir drew Malik and Altaïr aside.

"The others didn't want to ask you this, and in a way I don't blame them. You see, this crew is my family. If it's going to be dangerous, tell us now. That's not to say we won't do it, but," and here he rubbed thumb against his fingers, "the price may go up."

Malik and Altaïr exchanged glances. Altaïr shook his head. "It's not dangerous," he said."But there is one condition. We keep anything that we find in the tomb."

The guide looked skeptical. "Find something? This tomb's been open for hundreds of years. If there ever was anything worth taking in the first place, some other scumbag's got to it."

"Nevertheless," Altaïr insisted.

Samir looked carefully at Altaïr's weapons and the large bundle of tools that he carried. "It's your funeral."

"An unfortunate choice of words." Altaïr said as the guide walked off.

Malik shrugged. "He will get us in. It's up to us to find the fragment."

They walked to the base of the pyramid and clambered up the five layers of blocks, each as high as a man, separating the entrance from the desert floor. Flakes of polished limestone clung to the higher tiers, slippery as a waterfall. The mass of the pyramid loomed ghostlike and eerie above them.

The pyramid's facing had been destroyed in one area and the entrance clumsily blocked by a single stone slab. Samir and his crew had already loosened the block. Now they applied long metal levers to the gap beneath the block and, grunting, edged it from its place. A gust of cooler air flew out of the confined space. It smelt musty as the wind after a night of sandstorms.

Samir sketched a bow. "Paying customers first."

Altaïr drew his knife as he ducked into the narrow space. Malik drew his own dagger and followed him. He wasn't sure exactly what he should be on his guard against (ancient curses? demon warriors?) but it seemed best to be prepared. Despite himself, he was relieved when he straightened up and saw nobody but Altaïr inside the tunnel.

Samir crawled through the entrance behind them. He held a torch high in one hand. "See what I mean?" he said.

Malik glanced around at the rough-hewn stone walls. He had read much about the excavation of the pyramid by Haroun-al-Rashid's first-born son in the year eight hundred and twenty, but ink and paper could not encompass the sheer volume of the work. He brushed his fingers against the rock of the passageway and recoiled from the chill. Taking a deep breath, he drew the crumpled map from his sash and handed it to Altaïr. The other Assassin took a quick look and set off uphill towards the King's chamber.

Samir looked taken aback, but he followed with the torch. His voice echoed plaintively along the narrow passage. "There's nothing here!"

They passed through a narrow rock-strewn passageway into a much more impressive hall. Malik straightened his back, wincing, and looked up.

The arched ceiling of the passageway rose above their heads. The apex of the passage roof was lost in darkness despite the torches. The stone was hand-cut and finely carved. Malik could see the marks of chisels in the wall.

Altaïr pointed up at a small aperture visible at the top of the gallery. "Up there." He matched movement to word, climbing the steep hill carefully with the torch held high above his head. Malik followed more cautiously. The air was still cold, but it smelled of nothing more sinister than stone-dust. He looked back at Samir, but the guide motioned him on.

"Go ahead. I'll wait for you here. There's nowhere to get lost. Let me know when you've had enough. It shouldn't take long. I told you, there's nothing up there."

Malik shrugged and continued up the slope. It was steep enough that his boots slipped on the rock, but not so steep he had problems pulling himself up the incline. He passed a smaller opening as he walked, this one leading downwards into the bowels of the pyramid.

_And I am glad we do not have to go that way_, he thought as he followed Altaïr's pale robe and the rapidly receding torch upstairs into the central chamber.

There was nothing there.

It was not a large room. Like the corridor they had just ascended, its walls were built from huge, heavy blocks. They had been fitted together so tightly that Malik doubted he could have slid a knife-blade into the gaps between the stones.

A sarcophagus lay in the centre of the floor. There was nothing else.

The Assassins unwrapped their tools and got to work.

The metal bar Altaïr had brought fitted neatly under the lid of the sarcophagus, which bore the scars of previous attempts. The night was half over by the time they managed to lever the lid open.

Malik dropped the bar and rubbed his hands. "God's grace that the lid was not as heavy as the casket," he gasped.

Altaïr looked down into the casket. "God's grace," he echoed. He did not seem entirely convinced. His face was still as stone.

"What's there?" Malik asked him.

Altaïr's face was unreadable. "See for yourself."

Malik moved towards the edge of the coffer. He grasped the lip with his hand and looked down.

It was empty.

He took a step back and looked around the chamber. The sarcophagus was the only thing in it.

"It seems we should have listened to our guide," Altaïr said.

"This is not what I expected," Malik confessed. He glanced around the chamber again. The Eden fragment failed to materialize. He leaned down, reaching inside the chest, and trailed his hand through the sand strewn along the bottom of the casket. There was a faint pressure against his fingertips, then nothing. He withdrew his hand, puzzled.

Altaïr sniffed the air. "Something has changed," he said.

Malik frowned. "How so?"

"The air. It has changed. It smells like...like the Master's Eden fragment did. A clean scent, like morning mist across the river."

Malik dragged his hand over the bottom of the chest again. The feeling of pressure intensified. There was nothing definite there; nothing he could pick up, and certainly nothing he could see, but still...

"You try," he said.

Altaïr bent down from his perch on the corner of the casket and touched the pink granite. There was a ripple in the air, as if the room shook itself. The strange smell intensified.

Malik saw a larger room swimming like a mirage in front of his eyes. This one had grey walls, smooth and featureless like the most polished stone. The floor was made of the same smooth grey material. Streaks of red pigment marked its pristine surface.

The air was heavy with a familiar smell, one Malik recognized. He sniffed, bent down and touched the nearest pool. The blood stuck gummily to his fingers. It was not yet dry.

He moved further into the room, peering at the patterns on the floor. He made out crude silhouettes of animals: a monkey, a spider and an ant. A sequence of Roman letters scrawled beside one door spoke to him as clearly as Arabic script. The words unfolded themselves in Malik's head like an imam reading from a scroll.

ARTIFACTS SENT TO THE SKIES TO CONTROL ALL NATIONS. TO MAKE US OBEY A HIDDEN CRUSADE. DO NOT HELP THEM.

_So whatever else has changed in_ _this strange world_, Malik thought, _the Templars_ _are still here_.

He walked through a set of doors that hissed open like a curtain when he approached. Inside was a small room, with a bed on the floor and a thin metal table along one wall. There was a body draped over the bed. Malik hesitated in the doorway, afraid that the strange doors would close behind him and trap him.

More symbols decorated the wall behind the bed. Malik peered at them without moving from his place. The words formed in his mind like blood draining into a gutter.

THEY DRAINED MY SOUL AND MADE IT THEIRS I DRAINED MY BODY TO SHOW YOU WHERE I SAW IT.

Malik looked once more at the doors. When they showed no sign of moving he stepped into the room with as much defiance as he could muster. The doors, of course, hissed instantly closed.

Malik murmured a Syrian charm against magic under his breath. He looked up at the death curse on the wall and back down to the body. This, at least, was familiar. Whatever this strange place was, its inhabitants were still subject to violence and death.

As he got closer, he could see that the body was male. It-he-sprawled face down on the bed. His clothes were as strange as the building around him. They were soaked with blood.

Malik put his hand out to touch the man's shoulder. The body was not yet cool. He turned it over, grunting with effort. The corpse's arms flopped limply as it rolled.

The face was familiar.

Malik stepped back in dismay. His spine hit cold stone. He blinked and looked down at his palms as the illusion fell away like a discarded robe. His hands were clean.

He looked up and saw stone walls. A gentle blue glow emanated from the sarcophagus. Altaїr crouched at Malik's side. His hood had fallen back from his face. His eyes were wild. "Did you-"

Malik nodded. "I saw…myself," he said, struggling to keep his own voice level. "Only it was not me. And you? What did you see?"

Altaїr shook his head. "I saw a city made of water. I saw a strange place, a grey room. In it was a man who looked like me. He was of us, but not of us."

"Was he dead?"

"Dead? No. He was alive." Altaїr shook his head. He seemed to wake from a dream. "At least, I think he was. It was nothing."

"We should think on this later." Malik took a tentative step towards the casket.

"Agreed." Altaїr said grimly.

Both Assassins walked slowly to the casket, drawn as moths to flame by the unearthly blue light.

An azure orb glowed at the base of the casket. It was the size of a small melon, round and smooth, like an ostrich egg.

Malik pulled on a pair of leather gloves. He reached down and picked the globe up. The pair of them stood and stared at the Eden fragment.

"Why could we not find it before?" Altaïr said, after a while.

Malik frowned. "We both saw visions-"

He did not get a chance to say more.

"It was not a vision." Altaїr snapped. "Visions are for seers and madmen. I am neither."

"No more than I!" Malik retorted. He temporized, "Illusions, then. I think-I think I saw the future. If I am right, the orb hid itself. If it can create illusions of the future, all it had to do was produce an illusion of a future when it did not rest inside this tomb."

Altaїr shook his head. He pulled his hood back over his face, as if to hide from the fragment's glow. "Save your theories."

"Imagine what we could do with this, Altaїr!' Malik said enthusiastically. "The future would be as an open book." He shrugged. "It is a pity that the price runs too high for us to pay."

"Our world would be a better place if Al Mualim followed your reasoning.' Altaïr said. "Besides, I do not want to see more of that future!" He picked up his own gloves and pulled them on. "Let us go. Samir will be wondering what keeps us here." He took the orb and tucked it inside his robe as he headed for the doorway. The blue light winked out.

"Did you see your death, I wonder?" Malik said quietly to his retreating back.

Altaїr grunted, but he did not answer.

Malik shook his head and followed Altaїr down the long passage, leaving the tools behind. He would have liked to mull over the possibilities more, but there was a time and a place for scholarship, and that was assuredly not at midnight in the middle of a vast and empty mausoleum.

Samir met them at the junction of the passageway. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Altaїr glared at the small man balefully.

Samir ignored him. "I told you there was nothing here," the guide said as he hefted his own torch high.

"You did indeed." Malik said diplomatically.

The guided nodded in satisfaction. "Still," he said, "this is some place. Right?"

"Worth the journey by itself."

The guide sniffed, satisfied. "I trust you found it worth your while."

"Oh yes," Malik told him. He gestured the guide to go ahead as he straightened his back, wincing. His missing left arm had skewed his body, forcing his right shoulder higher than the left. His right shoulder blade scraped rhythmically again the ceiling of the narrow passage.

Altaїr glanced back at him quizzically. Malik shrugged.

The silhouette of the guide vanished through the exit. Exiting, Malik bumped into Altaїr's back. He opened his mouth to make an acerbic comment, and then saw why the other Assassin had paused.

The rest of the guides slumped in a heap on the sand. Their camels shifted nervously above their bodies, perturbed by the smell of blood. A mailed soldier grasped the camels' lead reins in one hand. Other soldiers stood in a wide crescent formation around the entrance to the tomb. A banner snapped in the crisp desert wind. The sky had turned an unearthly yellow color. It looked as if Samir's storm was on its way.

Malik felt a chill sweep through him that had nothing to do with the breeze.

Samir gulped. Before Malik could grab him, he jumped down from the pyramid towards the bodies of his fellow thieves. A high and wordless cry burbled from his throat.

The soldiers reached him before he was even halfway there. One of them slashed at Samir. The thief crumpled. The soldiers lifted Samir underneath his arms and flung him on the pile of corpses.

Neither Assassin moved.

The massed troops split in two. A wide aisle opened down the centre of the formation. A single horse stepped forwards through the column. It was richly caparisoned. It danced forwards, lifting each hoof clear of the sand before proceeding. Half a dozen Frankish soldiers wearing the white tabard of Templar knights followed in its wake.

The horse pranced forwards. It halted a few arms' lengths away from Malik and Altaїr. The rider of the horse raised the visor of his helm and blinked as a stinging sand grain caught his face.

"Welcome, Assassins."Sayf al-Din said. "You will come with us. Now."

Malik and Altaїr looked around at the massed ranks of guards. "We should be flattered," Malik muttered. He heard the sound of Altaїr's blade exit its sheath a second before he drew his own knife.

"No." Altaïr said flatly.

Malik raised his own voice. "With respect, my lord, I am afraid we will have to decline." He felt the breeze of the pyramid at his back. Possibilities ran wildly through his mind. They could hide in the tomb-seek shelter, perhaps, until they grew desperate from thirst, sell their lives dearly if Sayf al-Din sent his men after them.

The general's voice was quiet, but filled with absolute authority. "Come now. I know what you have found, and I applaud you for your valor. Nobody has ever brought anything of worth from that pyramid."

Malik shrugged. "We have nothing, my lord. Our quest was not successful."

"We both know that that is not true."

"Everybody makes mistakes," Altaïr said softly. "Even generals." He had angled his body, Malik saw, in such a way that the orb hidden within his robe was not visible.

"You lie." Sayf al-Din said flatly. The banner flapped in the rising wind behind him. "I hope you recognize what the consequences of such an act might be."

Malik looked around at the soldiers that encircled them. "If you wished us dead you would have shot us from a distance," he pointed out. "You have the air of a man who wishes to negotiate."

The general smiled. He kicked his horse and the animal sidled to the left. "I have found I have more in common with the Franks that I had thought. I have made allies. And my allies wish to question you."

The Templars stepped forwards into the gap.

"You are mistaken." Altaïr hissed. "The Templars ally themselves with no man. They will destroy us, and then they will destroy you."

"You will forgive me if I do not trust the word of an Assassin." Sayf-al-Din said coolly. "The Templars want peace. As do I. And sometimes peace is best achieved by negotiation rather than battle glory. But I would not expect men like you to understand. "

"What do they want with us?" Altaïr hissed.

"I believe," the General said, "they seek revenge for the death of de Sable. For William of Montferrat and Conrad, his son. For Sibrand the Teuton and Garnier de Naplouse..." He raised his eyebrows. "Need I go on?"

Altaïr raised his blade to his own throat. Malik followed suit. He felt the cold steel against his flesh.

"You will not do that," Sayf al-Din said, with the absolute confidence of a ruler. He raised his voice. "Bring them forwards!"

The soldiers parted for a second time. They dragged three figures forwards, their faces nearly unrecognizable under blood and bruises. Malik, squinting, could only just distinguish their sex. A man, a woman and a child.

He had never met two of the three, but he could guess very well who they were.

Malik had not known ben Ishaq had a family.

"We must surrender," he hissed under his breath to Altaïr.

Altaïr did not falter. "The very thought dishonors you."

"No more than the death of innocents dishonors us! This is not the way, Altaïr."

"Surrendering is not my way!" Altaïr snapped back. "I am not a coward."

"No more am I! This man is my friend. He offered us shelter!"

"Please!" moaned ben Ishaq's wife. "Don't kill us!"

Altaïr ignored her. "You owe them nothing," he said calmly. "Assassins have no friends."

Malik raised his voice. "We must give in!" He used the fingers of his right hand to form Assassin symbols against Altaïr's sleeve. _I will surrender. You shall escape._ He hoped that the other man would understand. Altaïr frowned. "I will not!" he shouted. His hands flicked against his robe. Assassin-sign for _you have no chance. _

Sayf al-Din followed the conversation with interest. Luckily for the Assassins, ben Ishaq's wife chose that moment to scream and thrash as the soldiers holding her tugged at her hair. Malik hissed "_There is no time, Altaïr_!" The piteous moans concealed his next words as best he could. "_Now_!"

He threw his knife down and advanced into the circle, hand held high. As the soldiers advanced upon him he drew a second knife with his good hand from the hidden scabbard between his left stump and his body, aimed...and threw.

The knife sailed in a perfect arc. It would have killed Saladin's brother, had the man's horse not sidled sideways at that exact moment. Instead it scored his cheek deeply and glanced from the mail coif that the General wore. Sayf al-Din cried out and clapped his hand to his face. Blood welled up between his fingers. Malik caught a brief glimpse of Altaïr diving for the camels before the first soldier reached him.

It was all over quickly after that.

To Malik's surprise, the guards did not kill him. They were not gentle, but they hauled him on his knees before Sayf al-Din more or less in one piece. He glanced around for Altaïr, but could not see him. The movement caught the attention of Sayf al-Din, who smiled unkindly.

"Peace, Assassin," the general said. He dabbed at his eye with a scrap of silk and winced. "I have kept my eye, which was doubtless not your intention. I shall live with the scar. You, on the other hand, will live to regret it." He flicked his finger. A pair of Templars stepped forwards.

The guards holding him pushed Malik's head down, but he managed to twist away enough to look the General in the eye. "My comrade?"

"He is dead." Sayf al-din said flatly. "And if he is not, then he soon will be. My soldiers seek him in the desert. He will not get far. I am surprised they are not back already."

Malik spat blood. "I will be surprised if they are still alive," he coughed. "Altaïr ...he has evaded guards in every city that I know. You will not find him this time."

He remembered too late that rulers did not like to be contradicted. Sayf al-Din nodded. Malik turned too late. The guard behind him punched him in the back, driving him to his knees. The pain was excruciating.

"Hold your tongue." Sayf said pleasantly."Or I will cut it out." He raised his voice and gestured to the Templars. "Take him. We must reach Cairo before this storm hits."

They tied Malik's hand to the back of his belt with a long piece of rope. The wind howled among the pyramids like a jinn. It made the camels nervous. The beasts were already uneasy at the sight and scent of blood, and it took three Templars to persuade one camel to kneel. Malik watched and waited, hoping for a chance at escape, but there was none. The Templars hauled Malik aboard and they set off for the city.

The storm intensified.

The Templars pulled their mail coifs over their faces. They moved to the lee side of the camel's hulking body. Sparks crackled from the beast's coarse coat. Malik looked around. He could not see much, but what he could see was not reassuring. The storm lent the air an unearthly glow. The sky was the color of saffron and the shadows of the tombs loomed dark over them. Malik saw nothing else but the bobbing backs of camels and the grey metal of mail shirts. There was no sign of Altaïr, or of ben Ishaq and his family. He wondered if they were dead as he worked his one good hand against the ropes.

One of the Templars leaned forwards. "Save your strength," he said in passable Arabic. "There is no chance of escape."

Malik paused as he weighed the words. Escape, in his opinion, was always worth a try. At the very least, it might bring him a quicker death than Sayf al-Din had implied. He rocked with the camel's ungainly motion and tried to think.

"What is your name?" he asked eventually, working on the principle that a man who knew your name might hesitate a second before loosing a crossbow bolt or swinging a sword. A second might be all Malik needed.

The Templar looked surprised. "Beg pardon?" he asked, accidentally using a much higher form of address than Malik guessed he had meant to.

"What is your name?" Malik repeated patiently. "Come, I will make it easy for you. Mine is Malik al-Sayf. I will let you have this for free. Tell me your name." He flexed his hand again. The ropes around his wrist moved- not much, but enough for him to get some feeling back into his arm.

"Don't answer," one of the other soldiers said. Malik had difficulty understanding the Frankish words, but the gist of the sentence was clear.

"My name is Steven Marcell," the man said, "and I am not afraid of you."

Malik sniffed. "Of course not. Nor would I be. Not now." He lowered his tone meditatively. "But what about in a dark alley, with nobody at your back? I wonder if you would be afraid then."

The Templar's face hardened, but he said nothing.

"We are just two men," Malik said, "but the Brotherhood is many."

The Templar scowled."Do not try to trick us, Assassin. I have met your sort before. Your Brotherhood will not come to save you."

"Really?" Malik asked innocently. He inclined his head. "Then what is that?"

He smiled quietly to himself as the Templar swung around to look.

In the dust of the storm, it took the soldier a few moments to realize that there really was nothing there. Steven growled as he realized the trick. He swung his fist. The blow connected with Malik's jaw and knocked his head back against the warm flank of the camel. Malik's teeth snapped together. Sand rattled against his face like hail as the world around him faded. Bright lights danced in the darkness.

A sudden lurch beneath him brought Malik back to himself. His face was caked with sand and his mouth was dry. His chest ached with inhaled grit.

The camel swayed again, and fell.

Malik fell with it. He landed face down in the sand. A velvety foot thudded down near his head as the camel staggered. If took a few steps away and fell over with a noise like a rug hitting the wall. It stank like a brewery.

There was no sign of the Templar.

Malik struggled to his knees.

An arrow hissed into the sand beside him. Malik crawled awkwardly over to the shaft, trying to keep his body behind the warm bulk of the camel. He felt the flight feathers tickle against his knuckles and groped along the shaft to dig the arrowhead from the sand. He paused to adjust his grip and began to rub the head of the arrow against the ropes. The rope was cheap, made from date fibers. Its strands frayed and snapped under the sharp broadhead. The pressure around Malik's wrist released.

Malik rolled over. He grabbed the arrow and raised his head over the sheltering bulwark that was the camel's dead body.

The night around him was a commotion of fighting men and sand. The sound of camels screaming echoed from the pyramids. It made Malik's skin crawl. He could not see more than ten paces.

He crept back from the camel and ran crouching to the shadow of the nearest mausoleum. A statue of a lion with a woman's head loomed up out of the ochre darkness. Malik dodged around it. A few arrows clattered against the stone, but they were nearly at the limit of their range and hence no threat to Malik.

He moved into the shadows at the edge of the tomb. The blocks of stone were cold as death, but the air was so warm Malik was grateful for the coolness. He shrugged the remnants of the ropes from his arms and considered which way to go next. The battle was north and east of him, towards the river. In such a dry heat, he would not go far without water. Crocodiles or no, the Nile seemed like his best chance.

When he heard a sound, he whirled like an animal at bay and saw another figure standing a few paces away. The silhouette's robes appeared saffron in the dim light. Malik held the arrow high. It seemed like a pitiful enough weapon, but it was all he had. "Do not move!" he commanded, and willed himself not to choke as the words bit into his seared throat.

The figure turned. "Malik?"

Malik recognized the voice. "Altaïr?" he asked incredulously.

Altaïr showed no sign of surprised. "Indeed," he said.

"Do you still have the orb?"

Altaïr reached into his robe and withdrew the glowing fragment. Veiled in flying sand, the light it cast was a sickly green in color.

"Who are the others? Did you find us help?"

Altaïr shook his head. He joined Malik in the shadow of the ruin and hunkered down, still as the tomb itself. "They seek the orb."

Malik's eyes narrowed. "Who are they?"

"They are Assassins." Altaïr said. "They know that we are here. And they will win. Sayf al-Din's forces have retreated towards the Nile. They will not risk their lord. The Templars travel with them."

"The new Master has sent the Brotherhood to find us." Malik said.

Altaïr nodded. He looked down at the arrow in Malik's hand and held out a knife. Malik nodded in thanks and tucked the weapon in his sleeve. He jabbed the arrow head downwards in the sand.

"Let us face them." Altaïr said.

Malik's hand slipped. "Are you _insane_? Listen to yourself, Altaïr."

"They will find us. And better to seek him out than be caught ourselves."

Malik considered. "True. We cannot sit here and argue forever. This storm is good cover, but it will end soon. Whatever we plan, we had best do it quickly."

"I say that we should show ourselves."

"And I say that we should not!"

Altaïr gestured in the direction of the battlefield. The noise of fighting had diminished. No arrows rattled from the coping stones of the tiny temple. "If we tarry here for long, our choice shall be made for us."

Malik shrugged. He looked back at the swirling sand of the desert. "Then let us find Nasr."

Altaïr got to his feet. Malik followed, somewhat less lithely. The gale was in full cry around them. Sand swirled in torrents. Malik closed his eyes for a second against the onslaught. He reached up and wrapped his scarf around his mouth. Sand instantly caked the fabric as he inhaled.

They headed into the storm.

They had not gone far before a figure wearing a white robe and scarf materialized in front of Malik like a jinn. He looked quizzically from face to face, and drew his knife.

Malik held out his hand. "Peace," he said. "We are not here to fight."

"Follow me," the Assassin said briefly. His voice barely carried over the hubbub of the storm. Malik did not recognize his voice, although he caught a trace of a faint Persian accent. The new Master had come to Masyaf from the Persian stronghold of Alamut. He had brought his own men with him.

"We wish to speak to the Master!" Malik shouted. It was an unwise decision. His throat smarted. He spat blood stained sand from his mouth.

The Assassin regarded him suspiciously. He said nothing.

"Nasr," Malik repeated.

Altaïr nodded.

The Assassin gestured forwards. He led them in silence to the battlefield. By the time they reached it the storm had abated slightly. The bodies of Templars, Arabs and Assassins lay shoulder to shoulder in the sand. White robed Assassins examined the bodies.

Their guide held his hand up in the air and shouted. His voice did not carry far, but nevertheless, a few of the Assassins looked up. Those who did moved their hands instantly to their daggers. The effect spread like a wave over the sea until all the Assassins were facing Altaïr and Malik with blades in hand. It was an unnerving sight. For the first time Malik began to question the logic of their decision.

Altaïr held up the Eden fragment. It glowed like a lantern in the gritty sank-soaked air.

Three men in white robes left the fighting and walked over to Malik, Altaїr and their three silent companions. They sheathed long knives in their belts as they walked. Their robes were stained with blood.

Their leader reached Malik and nodded. He reached out and took the Eden fragment from Altaïr, handing it to an attendant. "Altair ibn La'Ahad," he said. "Malik al-Sayf. You are wiser than I had thought."

Malik recognized Nasr al'Ajami, Grand Master of the Syrian Assassins and successor to Al Mualim. He bowed as deeply as he could manage. "Master."

Altaїr glared. "You are not my Master," he said eventually.

There was a collective intake of breath. Malik winced. There was a time and a place for defiance. This was not it.

Nasr frowned. "Think yourself fortunate that I did not hear you say that," he said, reaching forwards to push Altaïr's hood back from his face. "You have the look of Al Mualim about you."

"Al Mualim is dead." Malik said quickly.

Nasr looked from Altaïr's face to Malik's. "But it seems that his teachings live on. You seek his legacy."

"That is not true." Altaїr put in. He did not seem alarmed or even particularly concerned. "Al Mualim wished to control the world with the fragment that he held. He did not search for more. Instead he used what he found. We have not. "

"Al Mualim might well have done, were the first fragment hidden from him." Nasr said."And you have not yet had a chance to use the orb."

"Al Mualim was a Templar before he was an Assassin." Malik explained. "He lived a double life for years."

Nasr's sallow face grew dark with anger. His Persian accent thickened. "I know exactly what Al Mualim was. That is why the Brotherhood of Alamut sent me! To purge the Masyaf castle of its hidden taint!"

"We are not Templars!" Altaїr snapped.

"Then what are you? You left Masyaf without permission and without orders, so you cannot be Assassins! I think your loyalty lies elsewhere."

"We are ourselves." Malik said quietly.

"And we are loyal," Altaїr added.

Nasr scoffed. "In word, maybe, but not in deed."

"Everything I-_we-_ have done has been for the Brotherhood!" Altaïr protested. "We have not violated the tenets of the Creed. But neither have we used it as a shield. I vowed to do what I must to set things to rights after Al Mualim died. And I am loyal to that vow."

Nasr stepped back and looked at both men down his nose. He said nothing. His posture radiated nothing but contempt.

Altaïr scowled. "We seek not to use the artifacts, but to hide them from those who would."

"You speak with such sincerity." Nasr said.

Malik felt a great weariness sweep over him. "It is the truth." he said.

"Why should I believe you?" Nasr asked skeptically.

"We saw visions. The orb spoke to us. The Templars exist far into the future, as do we. And I think we fight them there."

Nasr narrowed his eyes and stared at Malik. It was the Master that looked away first.

The Master beckoned to one of the silent Assassins. "Hand me the orb!" He pulled his gloves off and handed them to an assistant before cupping the orb in his hands. "So let us see..."

His voice trailed off.

Malik never knew exactly what Nasr al'Ajami saw in the orb. The Master cupped the Eden fragment in his hands and started into its depths for many a long minute. When he looked up his face was grey. What did you see?"

It was Altaïr who answered. "I saw a strange future," he said. "Assassins who are not Assassins. Templars who are not Templars. The fragments, waiting to be discovered."

Nasr met Altaïr's gaze. His lips moved as if were about to speak, but no sound came out. A real and terrible compassion was writ deep in Altaïr's face.

The Master shook himself as if waking from a dream and handed the orb to his attendant. The Assassin wrapped the fragment in a square of bleached wool and tucked it away in a satchel.

"It seems you speak the truth." Nasr said briskly. "Let them go."

Malik's captors released him. Beside him, Altaïr grimaced and rubbed his arms.

"What were you planning to do with the artifact?"

"The idea was to keep it from the Templars." Altaïr said. He pulled his hood back over his face.

"Would have it not have been better to leave the orb concealed?" Nasr gestured at the pyramid.

"Maybe." Malik conceded. 'But we could not risk the artifact falling into Templar hands. We knew what we were searching for. They will also know."

Nasr looked less than satisfied at the reply. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by a stocky man in Assassin's robes. The intruder bowed deeply. "Master," he said, and offered a pair of leather bags to Nasr.

Nasr gestured towards Malik and Altaïr. "Give them their possessions."

The Assassin thrust a sheepskin pouch into Altaïr's arms. He dropped one at Malik's feet. Malik delved inside. He recognized his things. "My thanks."

"We took them from the house." Nasr said briefly.

Malik remembered ben Ishaq. "The Jewish papermaker?"

"Dead, alas."

"His family?"

"At peace with him."

"Not your work?"

"No. The Templars. They were dead before we arrived." His gaze was suspicious. Malik did not care.

"He was a good man," he said. _And I have weakened. Kadar got less of a eulogy than that, and he was my brother._

Altaïr delved into his own bag and took out the wooden globe. He raised it to the moonlight and spun it in his fingers.

"Ah.' Nasr said. "You have the map. That is good. You will need it." He glanced up at Altaïr with something of the shrewdness of his predecessor in his eyes. "Do you remember what the Assassins fight for?"

The words seemed to jog a memory in Altaïr for he replied "Peace in all things."

Nasr looked pleased at Altaïr's answer. "Indeed," he said. "This, therefore, is your task. Search out the fragments. Bring death upon our enemies. Claim the pieces as our own."

"As you wish." Malik said.

"Why do you not send other men?"Altaïr countered.

Malik sighed. It seemed that Altaïr genuinely could not even be diplomatic if his own life was at stake. Malik would not have minded so much has his own life not hung in the balance.

"I need those who can act without direct orders. And you, I think, will not do well at Masyaf again. Had we more time, I would send you to Alamut. But business is pressing, and this cannot wait."

"You planned this all along." Malik said.

"I make use of the instruments Allah gives me." Nasr said briefly. "Besides, I would not waste your training. I will give you horses, and as much help as I can offer. I suggest you go to Timbuktu next, in the kingdom of the Moors. Then seek out the Garden of Hesperides in the high Atlas. Once you have completed that task, take ship to our country and make for Masyaf. I shall meet you there."

"Now go, and remember, you serve the Brotherhood in all things. Do not err."

Malik bowed again. This time Altaïr joined him. "We shall not," he said.

"Then leave."

"And what of the fragment?" Altaïr demanded.

"I shall take it to Masyaf." He held up a hand as Altaïr opened his mouth. "No, do not question me. The first Eden Fragment lies safe within the bowels of Masyaf. I think I can be trusted with this one. I will not entrust it to such a long and difficult journey as yours is likely to be. Now go. And do not make me regret the decision I have made this day. That is all. "

"Safety and peace." Malik said automatically. He bowed, took Altaïr by the arm and dragged him out of the small circle of Assassins. Altaïr scowled, but he went.

The horses Nasr had promised were waiting. Malik mounted. A flask of river water was tied in the customary place at the crupper. He uncorked the water skin, took a long drink and hissed to Altaïr "Are you mad?"

Altaïr swung himself astride his own horse. "The orb showed my descendants. At present, I have none. Therefore, I survive. That is all."

Malik clicked to his horse. They headed south, amongst the pyramids and sphinxes of the necropolis. "You can still father sons if you are blind, or crippled. Did you not think of that?"

"I confess I did not." Altaïr said from beneath his hood. "But it did not go so badly."

"You nearly got us killed. Besides, I did not see _my_ descendants in the orb. He might very well have killed me, and spared your life. Think on that. You will have much time. It is a long way to Timbuktu."

Altaïr kicked his own horse in the ribs in reply. The mare reared and twisted. She came down hard, almost but not quite unseating Altaïr, to Malik's disappointment. She flicked her tail, pranced, and then took off like the wind into the shifting sands, in the direction of nothing very much.

Malik kneed his own horse into a gallop and followed.

"Brothers, when the time comes, with good fortune from both worlds as our companion, then by one single warrior on foot a king may be (struck) with terror, though he own more than a hundred thousand horsemen."

'An Ismaili Poem in Praise of Fidawis' tr. W Ivanow

Author's note: This story is a sequel of sorts to my previous story The Favour of Heaven, although I like to think it can stand alone if necessary. I took a lot more historical liberties with this tale than its predecessor; mostly because, although the murder of Conrad of Montferrat was well documented by contemporary historians, there was considerably less information available to me about the movements of Saladin's brother. But the story of the Great Pyramid and its exploration is true, and the description of the interior is as accurate as I can make it, never having visited. Nothing has ever been found inside the pyramid. Sayf-al-Din may or may not have been in Cairo at this time, and if he was it is doubtful whether he would have resided in Saladin's great citadel. The great Khan el-Khalili market had not been built in Altaïr's day, but doubtless there would have been something similar: the bazaar in the story is modeled after the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. The documents are loosely based on the Cairo Genizah, a cache of medieval papers mostly related to Jewish law that were found in a house in Old Cairo in the later 19th century.

I suspect my next AC story will likely feature Venice.


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